


That Anarchist Can Pitch

by AParticularlyLargeBear



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Other, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParticularlyLargeBear/pseuds/AParticularlyLargeBear
Summary: Having successfully baited Dunlap into batting practice against them, Schneider finds that they aren't having quite as much fun as they expected.
Relationships: Schneider Bendie/Dunlap Figueroa
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	That Anarchist Can Pitch

Dunlap isn’t very good at this.

There’s about a half dozen issues with his stance Bendie can tell just by looking, he swings at pretty much anything in the same area code as the strike zone, and when he does make contact, it’s ugly as hell and going nowhere fast. They’ve been at this for half an hour already and by Bendie’s reckoning, Dunlap has made clean contact maybe twice. 

Honestly, Bendie’s starting to feel kind of bad about baiting Dunlap like this. It wasn’t fully intentional, but she happens to have a couple of huge red PUSH ME buttons and well, Bendie being Bendie, they’ve never been able to resist that kind of opportunity. Dunlap’s got pride written all over her, and a couple of well placed barbs were all that was needed to provoke her into laying down the gauntlet. Sixth Circle stadium. Bendie on the mound, Dunlap at the plate. On paper, kind of dumb, kind of fun. Swap the roles around, prove literally nothing, maybe stop Dunlap being so uptight. 

Thing is, Bendie has a secret.

A fastball sizzles past Dunlap’s flailing swing.

They are pretty damn good at pitching.

It’s just not really their _thing_ , that’s all. Sure, it’s fun sending batters on a long walk back to the dugout, but it doesn’t come close to comparing to the adrenaline rush of smashing a ball and watching it soar into the stands.

Hey, they’re pretty damn good at batting, too.

Dunlap scowls and, appropriately, does not look back for the ball they missed. The stadium imps are on duty to collect the blaseballs as they are struck (or not. Usually not), and Bendie can see them scampering around behind the plate to collect the latest whiff. 

“We can trade, you know,” Bendie offers.

“Desist with the prattle and throw the ball.”

Bendie shrugs, collects another ball from the rack and obliges. Dunlap swings, the ball feathers. Another strike.

Though Bendie wouldn’t call themself a people person, they know frustration when they see it. They shift from foot to foot. A pitcher of Dunlap’s quality will definitely catch on if Bendie tosses a meatball, and with it refusing to swap, what can Bendie do? Sure, this has been bait from the start, but Bendie doesn’t want to be meanspirited. Dunlap’s… well, Dunlap talks as much trash as they do, he just uses poetry and fancy language to dress it up.

Not to say he’s backhanded or anything. Bendie would have even less respect for Dunlap if he tried to hide insults behind wordplay. No, it’s very clear when he’s bragging in all his Shakesplearian glory. 

_Crack._

Dunlap hits the ball and it bobbles, lazily sailing back at the mound. Bendie takes half a step back and snags it out of the air. Dunlap glowers like this is a personal affront. Bendie shrugs.

“Better than the last one.”

Dunlap actually _hisses_ , their slitted eyes flashing with unbridled frustration. “They do not require your critique, Bendie.” 

“If you say so.”

Another three strikes whistle by, then a ball which, by some miracle, Dunlap actually restrains themself from taking a swing at. They smile, then immediately snap their head to one side, hiding the expression against their upper arm. Bendie grins. Dork.

When Dunlap resets their stance, they’ve managed to scrub their expression clear. Bendie winds up for another pitch, and throws.

_Crack._

The hit dribbles directly to first base. Bendie tracks it for a moment, then looks back to Dunlap.

“Yeah that’d be an out.”

“They know.”

“Just making sure—”

“ _T_ _hey know._ ”

“Okay.”

They look at each other. Dunlap looks pissed off, but it’s a flustered and embarrassed kind of pissed. Bendie gets the sense that if she had ordinary eyes, she might be verging on tears.

Does Dunlap cry? Bendie’s stomach dips uneasily and they decide that they can go without knowing for at least a little longer.

They pick another ball off the rack and pretend not to notice Dunlap taking deep breaths, fidgeting with their bat. Bendie rolls their shoulder and spends a little longer than necessary practicing their throwing motion. When they step back onto the mound, Dunlap has resituated herself and looks much steadier.

Bendie throws. Dunlap twitches, but doesn’t swing. The blaseball sails straight through the strike zone and thunks into the disconcertingly large mitt the imps set up behind the plate.

There’s the sound of splitting wood. The wickedly curved claw on Dunlap’s left hand—their ‘11th finger’—has dug deeply into their bat’s handle as they grip it. 

“Uh. You okay?”

“They. Are fine.”

It’s flagrant bullshit, but ragging on Dunlap at this point feels both cruel and pointless. Any invective that Bendie might dream up clearly can’t compare to whatever Dunlap’s putting themself through already. Bendie collects yet another blaseball and hesitates. This was funny for the first little while, then got kind of sad, and is now deep into uncomfortable territory. Like, yeah, Dunlap is pretentious and smug and runs their mouth, but they aren’t an asshole. Ruining their day like this just makes Bendie feel like a bully.

“They’re ready. Throw the ball.”

Bendie eyes Dunlap. Their claw is still lodged in the bat. “Don’t want to take a break or anything?”

Dunlap shakes their head.

“If you say so.”

So damn stubborn. Bendie feels a brief spiritual connection with Captain Dom, only for it to be severed by begrudging admiration. Hey, they can respect the tenacity, especially if it absolves some of their guilt about all of this. 

Bendie spins the ball in their hand, gets their grip nice and set, and throws.

_Crack._

Ground out.

_Crack._

Ground out.

_Crack._

Fly out.

_Crack._

Foul.

Well.

They’ve seen better hits.

Bendie grabs another ball and tells themself that three more strikes and they’re going to call it a day. They can see Dunlap winding up tighter and tighter, and they’re not morbidly curious or callous enough to wait for that spring to snap.

“Last out.” Bendie calls.

Dunlap’s bat creaks uneasily.

Bendie throws.

Dunlap remains motionless. Strike.

Bendie gets a ball. Throws.

Dunlap doesn’t sw— _crack_.

Clean contact, Bendie spins and sees the ball skitter into the deep outfield, pursued by a gaggle of imps.

“Triple!” Dunlap declares, then hesitates. “Double,” they revise, glancing off and away. Bendie doesn’t miss the upturned corner of their mouth.

“Yeah, probably.” Bendie’s smiling too and they aren’t totally sure why. “Keep going?”

Dunlap nods.

They continue. Dunlap hits a couple of singles in exchange for another few strikes, and then seems to settle into a rhythm of some outs, some hits. Some of the weight lifts from Bendie’s shoulders. Dunlap’s still pretty bad at batting, but at least now they both seem to be enjoying themselves—

Huh. Bendie _is_ enjoying themself, and not just in a ‘taking Dunlap down a peg’ kind of way.

Well, whatever, Dunlap’s still arrogant, still pretentious, and still takes herself _way_ too seriously.

Has kind of a cute smile, though. 


End file.
